Maggie let the vision fade. It was clearly not the same as the other murders. The short angry man had killed her accidentally, and wanted to cover it up. Now she had proof there would be another murder. Now maybe Sgt. Warwick would believe her. She pushed drawer C-3 closed again. It was time to go.
Maggie looked over at her vomit in the corner. She really didn't want people to know that anyone had been there. She wondered whether her DNA would be present in it. And more than that, it was undeniably inconsiderate to vomit in someone else's place of employment and not clean it up. On the other hand, she wasn't really sure how to clean it up. She hadn't brought a mop and bucket, and the tissue she had in her purse would undoubtedly prove inadequate.
She looked at the spellbook. Now was as good a time as any to try that transmutation spell again. She had wanted to turn the short angry man into a pillar of salt. Maybe she could turn her vomit into salt instead. That would be easy to clean up. Hell, she wouldn't even have to clean it up. They would always wonder how a pile of salt had ended up in the storage room, but they'd never suspect the truth. She turned to the transmutation spell.
She was always surprised by how difficult the spell appeared at first glance. But she had been working on it and thought she might be able to pull it off finally. The levitation spell had been difficult at first too. Maggie looked at the vomit. She pictured salt in her mind. And then she spoke the spell aloud, shattering the silence of the morgue.
Nothing happened. That didn't surprise Maggie, though. She was expecting to have to try a few times. She readied herself to try again.
That's when she heard it. The noise. A kind of metallic scrape which echoed down the hallway. No ears playing tricks now. She knew she heard it.
She stood up and ran for the stairs, purse in one hand, spellbook in the other. Damn the vomit. She made it to the stairs and began running up them two at a time. She wasn't really tall enough to do that, but she was flushed with adrenaline. At the top of the stairs she bolted straight for the heavy wooden doors. She had no idea if anyone was behind her or not. It didn't matter. All that mattered was pulling that damn door open and getting outside. The door groaned on its hinges and swung open slowly. Maggie squeezed through it and bolted out into the cold dark night, not bothering to close the door behind her. She was three blocks away before she finally slowed down. And another two blocks before she returned to a walk.
Panting heavily, her side bursting, Maggie doubled over and looked behind her. No one. Thank God.
She started walking again. She wasn't exactly sure which way to go. She looked up to get her bearings. The lights from the business district by the college were behind some houses to her left. Otherwise the sky was cold and dark. And there was still no moon to be seen.
Then she heard the clocktower at the college begin its chimes. Twelve bells. Twelve o'clock. It was tomorrow already. It was Sunday. The winter solstice. And the day of the new moon.
And that's when she heard the footsteps behind her.
49. Be Traist
The footsteps were crisp and quick. Maggie turned to look over her shoulder, but she couldn't see anyone in the bulbous shadows engulfing the street behind her. She lowered her head and walked faster. Her side still hurt too much to just take off running. Besides, she had no idea where she could go.
There wasn't another soul around on the residential street. Why couldn't there be someone—anyone—out and about? Surely someone's dog needed a walk. But there was no one there. And the footsteps were getting closer.
She turned around again. The footsteps stopped. She thought she saw a shadow duck into some hedges, but she couldn't be sure. Then a chill ran up her spine and she felt even more vulnerable just standing there looking.
As she hurried down the street again, she heard the footsteps return. It was one of those long European streets that had previously connected two important points in the city without giving any thought to being able to cut over to any third, somewhat less important point. Like the college, which was just a few hundred feet to her left, but blocked by a row of townhouses, each connected to the next, without even the smallest side yards to cut through. And she couldn't turn around because that was where the footsteps were coming from. Her only chance was to speed ahead and hope she came to an alleyway to the college, or some other sanctuary.
The footsteps quickened as well.
Maggie's hurried walk turned into a light trot. She was glancing around feverishly looking for some house that looked safe to approach. She wanted one where a light was still on, so she wouldn't be standing still on a porch while hoping that someone would be awakened her knocking. But there were no lights on. Everyone on this sleepy residential street had retired for the night. There was no one to help her.
And the footsteps matched her trot.
Then Maggie saw it. Up ahead. It was the Catholic church she had stumbled upon during her walk just a few days earlier. Weren't Catholic churches always open? For Vesper services or something? Especially in a predominantly Catholic area like the Scottish Highlands? She hoped so.
The church was actually several hundred yards away, facing the next street over to her right. Undoubtedly the street she had been walking on the other day when she'd first seen the cathedral. But behind the church, and between her and its promise of safety, lay a large graveyard encircled by the iron fence next to her, its back gate just ahead and opening onto the quay she was trotting down now, her heart pounding and her ears ringing with the rush of blood and adrenaline.
The footsteps grew louder. And closer.
All she had to do was cut through the graveyard and enter the church from behind. There must be some back door to the church which would be open. Maybe there were even parishioners, or at least some nuns, inside at this time of night? She didn't know. But she knew the footsteps were right behind her now—close enough that if she did turn around, she'd see who it was, but it would be too late.
She ran to the graveyard fence as fast as she could.
She quickly raised the iron bar on the gate and slipped through it, sprinting into the dark. The footsteps also turned into a run and then fell silent as they too stepped off the pavement and onto the frozen grass of the graveyard.
Maggie dashed toward the church. She managed to twist and dodge around the various gravestones that stood in her way. The ground shifted eerily beneath her steps, unaccustomed to anything more than the somber gait of the mourning. She raced past a small marble mausoleum, which couldn't have housed more than two people. Beyond that stood the church.
Then she hit it. The black iron fence cordoning off the cemetery from the rest of the churchyard. She hadn't seen its black bars in the dark, and she grabbed her nose and forehead where she had smashed into its unforgiving rods. Her glasses were bent, too, but had not broken.
Damn! I've got to get out of here!
Her head snapped back violently. Her throat was crushed shut. She grabbed feebly at the cord wrapped around her neck, but it was already burying itself into her flesh, and whoever was cinching it closed was clearly much stronger than she—especially as her arms grew weak, and her lungs started to burn, and her vision faded as her brain was deprived of oxygen. There was nothing she could do. She couldn't scream, she couldn't breathe, and she knew it was only moments before she wouldn't be able to do anything ever again. Her hands and feet burned as the spots flashed in front of her bulging eyes.
Then she saw the short angry man flying across the dirty bar, and she had an idea. With her last vestige of energy she flailed at the man behind her and thought the levitation spell, picturing her assailant thrown clear of her.
Deprived of the ancient Gaelic words which gave it focus, but amplified by Maggie's fear and adrenaline, the spell burst forth from her weakening limbs and the cord went slack. Her attacker landed on the ground several feet away with an unceremonious "Uff!"
The air rushed back into Maggie's lungs. She pulled the garroting wire from around her throat and turned to face h
er attacker. He lay on his back still—was just sitting up. He wore a long black overcoat, which even in the dark of the graveyard betrayed its stains of blood. His hands were sheathed in similarly stained black gloves. He leaned over to one side and pushed himself to his feet, and as he rose to his full height Maggie finally got a look at his face.
It was Iain.
Maggie sprinted back the way she'd come, her side bursting. There was no time to find the gate to the church. Her feet raced almost as fast as her mind.
Iain? she thought incredulously. It can't be Iain! She ran on. Can it—?
As she passed the small mausoleum on her left, a hand darted out and grabbed her forearm, pulling her off balance and wrenching her to the ground. A second hand quickly covered her mouth and Maggie's big brown eyes looked up at the stone-cold visage of Devan Sinclair.
"Don't scream," he instructed.
Maggie nodded.
Sinclair removed his one hand from her mouth and jerked her brusquely to her feet with his other. "This way."
They quickly crept around to the other side of the mausoleum, their backs to the wall and Sinclair's grip still tight on her arm. He let go only to pick up a shovel which lay discarded against the mausoleum wall. Maggie stared at him, but he was busy trying to see around the near corner of the small structure, his neck craning and the shovel bouncing in his hands like the bat of an on-deck hitter.
"It's Iain," Maggie whispered, her throat stinging—the wire had hurt. "He's summoning a demon." She knew if anyone would believe this last part, it was Devan Sinclair.
Sinclair didn't turn around. "It's not Iain."
This was not a reply she had expected. "What are you talking about?" she asked again in a raspy, hushed tone. "I saw him with my own eyes."
This time Sinclair turned to face her. His expression was a combination of worry and impatience. "Think, Maggie," he said. "Who will benefit the most from the demon taking a human host?"
But before Maggie could answer, Sinclair's question was transformed from Socratic to rhetorical as his head hit the mausoleum wall with a sharp crack. The shovel fell to the ground and his arms and body went slack as he slid down the wall into an untidy pile of unconscious bookseller. Maggie looked up and saw Iain perched on the roof of the mausoleum, his hand still dangling below the roof line where he had reached down to grab Sinclair's head and smash it into the stone wall. Then Iain jumped down to the ground, well in front of the shovel, and stood to face Maggie.
"Iain?" she pleaded. "It's me, Maggie."
Iain's face bore no expression. His only response was to take a single deliberate step toward her.
Maggie looked at the slumped form of Devan Sinclair. He would be of no help now. She returned her gaze to Iain in time to see him pull a long knife from his coat pocket. Maggie looked down. She still held the wire in her hand. It was the same wire she had seen in her visions. The same coat and gloves. The same knife. She looked at it again: it was a surgical scalpel. What would Iain be doing with a scalpel? He's not a doctor.
Maggie tried to corral the thousand thoughts racing through her mind. Hadn't she encountered a doctor recently?
Iain took another step toward her and raised the blade slightly.
"Iain?" she repeated, hoping her voice might snap him out of whatever fever possessed him. But he was not to be deterred. He took another step, and in response Maggie took a tentative step backward on the slippery lawn.
This doesn't make any sense, Maggie thought. Why is Iain summoning a demon? Or is he just a psycho, adding the ritualistic part for show—for some kind of sick kick?
She looked again at the man she had kissed just days before. His expression was inscrutable as he raised the knife still higher.
Why would he have killed Annette Graham? Uncle Alex was the one whose wife was being blackmailed by Annette. But Alex can't be the murderer. He was with me when Fionna was killed.
Iain took another sure step toward Maggie. He seemed in no hurry; if she turned to run he'd be on her in a heartbeat. Maggie took another step back and almost lost her balance as her foot slid across the icy grass.
And why did he kill Fionna? Sean might have done it, incensed with his sister's pregnancy. And Ellen had even thought at first that Will might have done it. But Sean disappeared after Fionna's murder. Was he even in Scotland when Kelly was killed? And hadn't Ellen said Will had been in London then?
Maggie scanned Iain's face. His expression was still distant, holding no recognition of her, but she thought she detected the faintest smile hidden in the corners of his eyes. He took two bold steps toward her, causing her to back up yet again and have to put her hand against the mausoleum for support.
And what about Kelly? Macintyre seemed like the one. He'd had the affair with her and stolen her research. But again, Macintyre had said he was in Amsterdam when Annette was killed. He couldn't be the murderer.
Then Maggie realized something else, something that defied the image which filled her panicked eyes.
Iain can't be the murderer either! He was with me the whole day when Kelly was killed! He couldn't have killed Kelly Anderson! And yet she knew the murders had been committed by the same twisted soul.
Sinclair. The murders in Glenninver eighteen years ago.
The scalpel. Sinclair had called the old man in the shop 'Doctor.'
Annette Graham. Uncle Alex had told Aunt Lucy he'd gotten so drunk the night Annette was killed that he couldn't remember where he'd been—or what he'd done.
Fionna. Sean had been enraged at her pregnancy by an Englishman—and her contemplation of an abortion—but did he really have it in him to murder his own sister?
Kelly. Macintyre had the most to gain from her death, but what evil force could have driven the ivory-tower academic to murder?
And then Maggie finally realized who would benefit the most from the demon taking a human host.
She didn't know if it would work. It's wasn't a spell in the spellbook, but she had obtained a good command of the dialect, and the levitation spell had worked against Iain even when she had been unable to speak it. Maybe she could channel the magic directly; maybe she could craft her own spell. She took one more step back on the slick grass—not in retreat, but to solidify her footing. She raised her hands. Iain raised the knife. He was coming this time. It had better work.
"Liách ó chorp Iain!" she cried out.
Iain stumbled backwards at the words, then righted himself again. His face finally bore a recognizable expression: surprise. And urgency. He raised the knife again and lunged toward Maggie.
"Liách ó chorp Iain!" she repeated. 'Leave Iain's body.'
The spell burst forth and grabbed Iain by the shoulders, driving him to his knees. A brilliant crimson glow shot forth from his chest and a pained grimace flashed across his contorted face.
"Liách ó chorp Iain!" Maggie commanded.
The scarlet light was pulled fully forward out of Iain's chest and his body fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, unconscious and only a few feet from Sinclair's similarly helpless form.
The massive red glow hovered in the air for a moment, then flared and slowly coalesced into a semi-solid shape. Before Maggie's eyes stood the most vile thing she had ever seen. It was easily nine feet tall, with a torso that could barely be distinguished from the head atop it, a large saliva covered affair filled with literally dozens of six-inch long razor sharp teeth. At least seven arms protruded from the torso, each with a claw as long as Maggie's leg. The sinewy body sat atop too long bony legs which bowed back like a horse's, only to meet the earth in splayed hooves with uneven, spiked nails protruding from them. A long, thick, reptilian tail swished expectantly behind the beast and leathery folds of what Maggie could only suppose were wings hung from its back. The effect was terrifying, and was only made worse by the fact that the entire form was glowing red and transparent. She could see the gravestones through its ethereal body.
Who will benefit the most from the demon taking a human
host? Maggie stared up at the monstrosity before her. The demon, of course.
The demon let out a long, loud laugh—one that gurgled and churned in its thick, spit-soaked throat, and one that Maggie felt more than heard.
"Congratulations, Maggie Devereaux," its voice seared into her brain. "You have deduced my secret." She didn't hear the words so much as sense their meaning in her mind, the ideas boring directly into the language recognition centers of her brain. "But you have also miscalculated."
"Is that why you came after me? Because I was getting too close?"
The demon laughed again. "Do not flatter yourself. I simply needed a final victim to complete the spell. A final victim so I could permanently graft to a human host."
"Like Sinclair." Maggie finally understood. "Eighteen years ago."
"Yes," said the demonic voice, "but he had been too strong-willed. He was able to wrest his body back from my control after watching his parents die in a blaze set by his own hand. I've had to wait eighteen years for the moon and sun to be properly aligned again. Eighteen years of impotence—condemned to stalk this plane only able to possess humans for short periods, and only then if they were angry enough to be able to receive me."
"Like Uncle Alex."
"And Sean FitzSimmons and Craig Macintyre," the monstrosity confirmed. "Even that doctor I obtained the scalpel from. And I kept my," an evil pause, "'tools' in a place where I could access them no matter whose body I possessed."
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 38
